18
ROLAND
I danced around the boxing ring to the roar of the crowd.
The fighter circling me was scrawny but strong, as evidenced by the three punches he'd landed on my ribs. That's what I got for underestimating the cheeky cunt. But I'd given as good as I'd got so far, and the swollen eye and blood dribbling down his busted lip proved it.
He was beginning to fatigue, but I had all the energy in the world.
I advanced on him steadily, moving him back and to the left. The moment his back leg hit the rope I charged, leading with a vicious right hook to the body that sent pain shooting up my knuckles but undoubtedly hurt him more. I followed it up with another body blow with my left, then a third with my right, and he was backed up against the rope and couldn't avoid me, so he moved his arms lower to defend against my barrage but that was exactly what I was waiting for, and the moment he did I jabbed him straight in the nose.
The cartilage broke beneath my knuckles, forcing his eyes closed. The crowd of Boston men and women screamed with horror and bloodlust.
I had him dead to rights then, but I eased up to drag it out. A few more blows to his ribs, then I danced back to give him breathing room. He advanced hesitantly, eyes too swollen to see, breathing through his mouth in a bloody semblance of a grin. One final shot to the gut bent him over, and he fell to his knees, and my hands were in the air victoriously before he finished hitting the ground.
Boris called the fight, and I strutted around the ring with my hands on my hips like Connor goddamn McGregor.
It was a friendly crowd tonight, so there were more cheers than boos as I ducked under the ring. Hands slapped me on the back and voices called out to buy me a drink as I made my way through the crowd, but I ignored them and headed straight for the locker room.
The relative silence of the room made my heartbeat deafening in my ears. I sat on the bench and leaned against the wall, catching my breath and savoring the afterglow of the fight like post-coital satisfaction.
Fighting was like fucking in a lot of ways. You had a partner (usually just one) who was focused on your every move. You danced together, one person reacting to the other, then switching. Positions changed. Blood pumped. And then it ended in a climax that left you either elated or vaguely disappointed.
But I wasn't disappointed tonight. No sir.
I had my fucken mojo back. I was pure, concentrated energy. A supernova. It was as if my week of sickness had stored up my strength, and now I was unleashing it all at once.
I opened my locker and used a towel to clean myself off, wincing at the ache in my right ribs. Not cracked, but still going to turn into a terrible bruise by morning. I was still good for another fight tonight, though. I'd guard that side if I had to.
Thinking of Harriet, I pulled my phone out of the locker. She should be somewhere over the Atlantic by now. It made me sad that she was so far away. The next three months would be tough.
But I could do it. For her, I could.
When I unlocked my phone to re-read our texts, I saw that I had another four missed calls from Ethan. He'd even left me a voicemail this time. For him to be this worked up he must have forgotten something in Belize and was hoping one of us grabbed it. Shaking my head in annoyance, I pulled up the voicemail and hit play.
"Roland! It's Ethan. I've been trying to call you for the last three days! Dude, listen, because what I'm going to tell you is really important." He sighed into the receiver. "When we were in Belize, in that cave on the last day..."
Boris strode into the locker room. "Hell of a fight, Irish."
I hung up my phone and tossed it in the locker. I'd listen to it later. "I feel good tonight."
"You looked good." He eyed me, and spoke slowly with his thick Russian accent. "Maybe too good, yes?"
"Unlike the other meatheads you put out there, I don't need to take speed before a fight," I said.
He held up both hands protectively. "Okay, okay. I just ask. Meaning no offense. Do you want another fight, or are you done for tonight?"
I thought about my fight last week, the first loss I'd taken in months. Anger flared up at the memory of the dragon boy's rumbling laughter.
"Is the dragon douchebag around?" I asked. "I want a rematch against him."
"Do you?" Boris frowned at me. "He is still out of your weight class. Unless my eyes are weak, you have not gained 50 pounds of muscle since then."
"Like I said, I'm feeling bloody good tonight."
Boris considered me a moment longer then shrugged. "The dragon man is not around. I can make a call, but no promises. But," he added, "you will fight another tonight, even if I cannot reach him?"
"Aye, I'll fight whoever you've got for me. Just give me an hour breather."
He nodded and went back out to the bar, the noise momentarily louder until the door closed behind him.
I wasn't a smoker, but I went through the back door the smokers took to reach the alley between Boris's bar and the one behind it. The alley was only 12 feet wide, but through that sliver to one side I could see enough of the sky to spot Harriet's constellation. The eagle, with the extra bright star as the head. She was on a plane right now, so she wouldn't be able to see it, but it made my chest tingle to look at it. Something we shared.
I told myself I would look at it every night, just as she promised.
I flexed my right hand. The soreness there was getting worse; I'd need to ice it before my next fight. Even then, I'd probably favor my left hand. Which was fine; whoever it was would be expecting more attacks from my right, so switching it up and using my left would throw him off guard. And it'd give me a challenge.
I liked a challenge.
Harriet was a challenge. At least, compared to what I was used to. She was shy, and bashful, and smart. Incredibly smart. I couldn't use my normal angry fighter facade with her; I had to be myself.
No, that wasn't the right way to say it. Around her I got to be myself. It was a luxury, not a hindrance.
Already, even after just two days together, I'd never been so comfortable around anyone like this. I was vulnerable with her, and she accepted me. I didn't have to put up brick walls and keep her at arm's length like the others.
I was smiling in the cool night, thinking about how wonderful it would be to be myself, when suddenly I wasn't.
Literally.
Pain overwhelmed my body, a lifetime of agony compressed into a single devastating moment. My bones shattered into tiny pieces, my muscles ripped and tore and disintegrated. My skin stretched grotesquely, my teeth shrunk and disappeared. Suddenly my skull was too small for my brain, and it broke and expanded and fused back together. I clenched my eyes shut against the terror that was occurring to me, my body being ripped apart like every fight I'd ever experienced at once, and then as quickly as it started it was done.
I opened my eyes, which were no longer mine.
And with new arms, wings that held feathers and strength, I soared into the sky.
It made no sense, an impossible transition that was so much like a dream. And like a dream, I didn't care. I accepted the ridiculousness of it as I flew higher into the dark sky, a sky which would conceal me against spying eyes. I twisted my eagle's head all the way around to admire my perfect body: the long, graceful wings that I felt with muscle memory like I'd been using them for a thousand lifetimes, lifetimes where I'd dived upon Great War trenches and the swamps of Crimea and even battles I didn't recognize with men who wore Japanese armor and swung deadly swords high above their heads. My feathers were the color of blood, deep crimson that shone almost black by the moon's light. My boxer's mind tried to take over, flexing my hands, and I felt talons and claws scratching at the air beneath me.
I flew high, curving in the sky, and wished I had something to fight.
And then I heard the rumble.
It began like thunder, rolling across the distant land before bubbling across my ears, but it was no thunder for there were no clouds this night. The laughter rumbled in my ears, low and mirthless, with surprise and victory in the tone.
I recognized the laughter, though I could not place it.
The sound filled me with mistrust; though I was shielded by the night sky, it would make it difficult to spot predators as well. I wasn't sure what predators could attack me here in Boston, but I trusted my instinct, and opened my wings wide to glide back down to the roof of the bar, then down into the alley behind.
Like unclenching a fist, I left this form.
I felt like a balloon deflating; my wings receded into my back, leaving me with the lingering sadness of a phantom limb. My feathers were gone before I could blink, and my eyes became so blurry that I struggled to remain upright. I fell to my knees, which were human knees now, and shuddered as my bones and muscle rematerialized into shapes and structures of old.
I gasped for breath, staring at the dirty alley ground.
There was something underneath one knee, which ended up being my boxing shorts. They must have fallen off while I transformed. Shivering, I let impulse take over and clothed myself, then stared up at the dark sky.
I was flying. Just now. Right there, with the Cambridge lights spread out below me.
I didn't seem real. Like I'd hallucinated it.
Before I froze, I went back inside the locker room.
I was shivering uncontrollably now, even after I pulled my jeans over my boxing shorts and frantically put on my shirt and coat. The aftereffects of an adrenaline rush, I knew from experience. The back of my throat was coated in a metallic taste. Everything seemed so dull with my human eyes, like the contrast had been turned all the way down. Like I'd switched from color TV to old black-and-white channels.
My human eyes. That thought alone almost made me laugh with insanity. As if any of what just happened were real.
But wasn't it? The memory was vivid in my brain, and I doubted that I was hallucinating.
Bloody hell. I needed a drink.
"Irish," Boris called as I pushed through the bar, ignoring the crowd that was watching the fight to my right. "Roland! Where are you going?"
I walked down the Cambridge street on springy legs, my hands shoved into my coat pockets. I was hyper-aware of my body now, like it was the first time I'd ever been inside of it, whatever that meant. My fingers tingled, and the arch in my right foot ached with each step. The pain in my ribs was gone, though now there was a sharp pain in my upper back.
Where my wings had been.
I glanced both ways before reaching behind me. I pretended to scratch my back while I poked and prodded myself, searching for anything out of the ordinary. I discovered nothing, even though the memory fresh in my head said they were right there, my wonderful gryphon wings, powerful and strong and the core of what I was.
Gryphon. That's what I was, I realized as the word slid into place. Like the fucken carving I'd been holding.
I walked down the street numbly. I really needed a drink.
The liquor store was bathed in harsh light, glistening off the rows of bottles. I ignored the cashier's polite greeting, scanned the labels on the wall, then headed straight for the whiskey section.
I was squinting at the bottles, looking for something Irish that would remind me of home, when I felt him come.